


Swatch

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VIII, Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Retail, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 01:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11818452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Squall’s bored, and Cloud made a terrible mistake.





	Swatch

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: AU based on KH personalities/canon. I know Squall calls himself Leon there, but I think he’d still have his original name in his own head. Thanks to imera and pttucker for the bunny.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Kingdom Hearts or Final Fantasy or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The only thing Squall hates more than being stuck on til is being stuck on til with Aerith. It’s an absolutely dead Sunday night, and the last customer they had was a full hour ago. There’s really no need for two cashiers, but neither has the authority to send the other home, and neither of them are willing to call their manager and ask. Sephiroth’s better left in his office. 

It isn’t that there’s anything _wrong_ with Aerith, exactly. She’s not a pain in the ass like Yuffie is, or an enormous irritant like Setzer. But it’s just that she’s so infernally _good_ , so pure and everything that Squall isn’t, that he can’t imagine talking to her. They haven’t got a thing in common. They’re not even on the same level. Aerith is the sort of employee that customers bring flowers for, while Squall’s the til that everyone avoids—unless, of course, they need something heavy carried to their car, in which case he’s everyone’s hero. It’s probably the only reason he hasn’t been fired yet.

Cloud’s almost as bad. Except Cloud, for some reason Squall can’t understand, seems to actually _like_ Aerith. And it makes him wonder how the hell he got stuck on til with her while Cloud’s lucky enough to roam the isles. It’s probably just as boring, but at least Cloud gets to stretch his legs and eye the merchandise. As far as retail jobs go, Hollow Bastion Hardware isn’t the worst place. 

But tils are tils. And Squall’s shamefully pleased when the phone beside his register rings—he’ll take _anything_ happening at this point. 

On the other end, Cloud’s voice asks, _“Can you bring me towels?”_ It’s strangely deadpanned. Squall lifts a brow at no one over the tone as much as the question.

Even though it would be something to _do_ , old habits die hard, and he finds himself snapping, “Get them yourself. You’re the one in the isles.”

 _“No,”_ Cloud parries, with maybe just a _hint_ of distress—something unusual for him. Unlike Aerith, Squall has a fair bit in common with Cloud—namely, never wanting to admit a weakness. Cloud pushes: _“Not floor ones, ones from the break room. I’m in isle seven and can’t move.”_

“What, you get your foot stuck in a bucket or something?”

Quietly, almost pleading, Cloud says only: _“Leon.”_

And it’s enough that Squall actually starts to worry, so he mutters, “Fine.” He hangs the phone up then, glancing two tils over, and calls, “I’m helping Cloud in the isles.”

Aerith looks up, startled, from where she’d been washing her til with a rag. She’s the only one Squall’s ever seen actually do it. She doesn’t challenge him, just gives him a puzzled look and answers, “Okay, but why—”

Squall’s already leaving. 

Their break room in the back actually does have folded towels in it, because lugging lumber and chains and furniture around make for sweaty workers and grimy hands. He assumes Cloud doesn’t care if they’re used, so he just scoops up all three stacked there and heads back down, weaving through the lighting department and past the garden accessories to isle seven, which he realizes belatedly is paint.

And as soon as he’s turned the corner, he spots Cloud, standing over by the pillar with the phone mounted on it, a trail of pale lavender puddles leading from his feet to the far shelf, where a bucket of open paint sits on the floor. 

Cloud’s pale cheeks flush pink at seeing Squall, and he grunts, “’Found it over in the kitchen area and thought I’d put it back, but apparently some asshole opened it.” Squall doesn’t make fun of him for not noticing that _before_ trying to put it back. Clearly, Cloud’s paid for his mistake enough. 

He’s covered in it. His blue uniform is plastered to his chest, a trail of it slicked down his cheek, and his golden hair’s flecked and matted with stray clumps. His hands are a mess—he must’ve tried to clear off his face. But he obviously hasn’t dared move any father than the phone, less he leave a path of footprints far enough to draw Sephiroth’s eye. And Cloud’s brooding attitude, not all that different than Squall’s, has already earned him a few warnings. 

But brooding jerks have to stick together, so Squall comes forward with the towels, already knowing he won’t report the incident. He drops the other two towels onto the nearby shelf and uses just one to toss over Cloud’s head—he gives Cloud’s hair a firm rub before Cloud can squawk his protest. Squall massages him mercilessly before finally pulling away to find Cloud’s hair as clean as it’s going to get without water, albeit still utterly ruined, and the messy sort of bed-head it leaves is enough to make Squall snort and restrain a grin. Cloud’s cute enough without his cheeks red and his pretty hair at Squall’s mercy. Squall swipes the line off Cloud’s cheek and suggests, “Take off your shirt.”

Cloud wrinkles his nose, glaring, as though it’s Squall’s fault he’s in this mess. But he begrudgingly obeys. It’s not like he has anything to be embarrassed by, though he looks ashamed anyway—maybe more at the stupidity of the situation than anything. When he’s got the wet shirt over his head, Squall wraps it in the used towel. Cloud’s broad chest and chiseled abs are left relatively clean and damn good to look at. Squall enjoys the view before gesturing vaguely at Cloud’s pants.

Cloud groans. He mutters, “Right here? On the floor?”

“You got a better idea?” Squall asks, to which Cloud rubs his forehead, then quietly curses at having smeared more paint there. Squall fetches the next towel to fix it. He adds, “If it helps, the place is a ghost town—I haven’t seen anyone come in all night.”

“And if they come in now, I’ll get fired for sure.”

“Not if you wrap up in the towel quick enough. Besides, out of uniform, they won’t know you work here.”

Cloud shakes his head, lets out an aggravated sigh, but he does bend to unfasten his belt amidst the squelching sounds of clinging paint. He deposits it on the shirt/towel pile, then pops his fly and starts pushing his pants down his legs. Squall doesn’t bother to turn around, and Cloud doesn’t tell him to.

Cloud’s only got his pants halfway down his thighs when a soft gasp sounds behind Squall. He turns to spot Aerith standing at the end, eyes wide as saucers. Cloud freezes, beet red. 

Evidently better at keeping his head than either of them, Squall breaks the stunned silence: “He spilled paint on himself.”

Aerith squeaks, “Okay. I, uh, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay—um, bye.” And then she turns on her heel and darts off before Cloud can say a word to redeem himself.

Squall gives him a sympathetic shrug and grunts, “At least you look good without them.” And Cloud glares absolute daggers at him. 

Cloud straightens quickly, hurriedly pulling his pants back up, and grumbles as he does up the fly, “Just get me a spare uniform.”

So Squall, wondering why neither of them thought of that before, nods and leaves to save whatever’s left of Cloud’s dignity.


End file.
